Stormy Days and Crazy Cats always get me down...



Buddy keeps an eye on the storm

 Spring in the Mid-South brings rain and strong winds and humidity, all of which leads to tornadoes. The sound of warning sirens gives me instant stress.

Back in 2009 I was pulling into my garage with a baggie of fish for my aquarium when the sirens went off. I thought I handled the situation well. I gathered my six or seven cats (I never know how many I actually have) and put them in the kitchen walk in closet inside cages. I gathered up beloved possessions and then, exhausted, grabbed myself a glass of tea before deciding to join them.

I recall turning around from the refrigerator to see tree tops covering my back door. Tree tops? A huge tree had fallen and taken out my yard and half my roof. I commend myself for being the ultimate in calm. I picked up my cell phone and dialed a tree service that I had used in the past. I figured the storm was bad enough that they would be very busy in the coming days. I needed first dibs on them. And they came, bless them. That day. The tree covered half my driveway and made a huge mess of everything but thankfully no one was hurt.

My first thought is always for my cats. Outdoor ones come first. Tonight I grabbed father and daughter, Jesse and Gidget and put them in my laundry room. I have two beds, a litter box, a lamp, food and water waiting for them. I spray Feliway to keep them calm but they're both pretty chill cats to begin with.

Then I set up Chauncie and Jack in my fenced yard. Chauncie is neurotic so she cannot come inside. Jack keeps her company under the chaise longue pushed against the house with a second chaise on its side butted against it. They seem fine about the arrangement and they are protected from weather.

My indoor cats are another story altogether. They. Are. NUTS.  If I have to grab them to put in the cages, I have to walk around like nothing is going on and catnab them one at a time, starting with the most hysterical (Barney, Opie) and ending with the least punchy (Herm, Nick, Buddy). If I make a sudden move and there is any sound of commotion, a feline warning siren goes off, alerting them Mom is going berzerk and to take cover. I have back problems. I cannot move as fast as I used to. So I try to be as calm as possible to avoid personal pain.

I am not an alarmist but I take these storms seriously. Unlike my husband who walks around munching Cheetos, poo-pooing that anything will happen. Tonight he thought he'd mow the lawn before the rain started. The storm is moving at 50mph and is sitting on the other side of the Mississippi river and he thinks he has time to mow. He drives me NUTS!  More than my cats, and that is saying a lot, my friend.

Inseparable by Nancy Townsend

According to my husband, Basil, a young woman left her Siamese cat with him one wintry night while he was working at our delicatessen.  Her husband had been deployed to Viet Nam and she had to move in with her mother-in-law who was allergic to cats.  Of course he brought her home after he closed the store and before long she settled in with our other animals – Bruno, a big, black Newfoundland; Tony, a Basset Hound; Boots, a spayed black and white female; and a neutered Calico male named Buddy.

Jasmine was beige with brown points and big blue eyes.  She was also the most vocal cat who ever shared my home.  I think Siamese cats must have spawned the word “caterwauling” which the dictionary defines as uttering “long, wailing cries, as cats in rutting time.”  Jasmine caterwauled regardless of whether or not she was in heat.

Around this time we adopted a pewter gray female kitten from a friend (see The Cat With Many Aliases, 4/6/11) and named her Pandora.  She had such long hair that no one noticed she was actually a he.  We decided to spay Jasmine but by that time the kitten had grown and managed to get her pregnant.  We renamed him Pan.  Jasmine had a litter of beautiful pewter gray kittens and we found homes for all of them. 

One kitten went to a young woman friend of ours who wanted company for her slightly older cat.  At the time I didn’t know she had purchased a parakeet.  A couple of weeks later, the parakeet was dead and the woman insisted little Shade was the culprit.  I seriously doubted this because she was still just a baby and there was an adult cat in the house, but we took her back.  I noticed immediately that she had a runny nose and matted eyes.  I took her to the vet and was told she had a respiratory illness, so back at home I shut her in the bathroom to keep her isolated from the other animals.

Although she was on antibiotics, Shade seemed to be going downhill rapidly.  Meanwhile, Jasmine had been parked outside the bathroom door and was yowling piteously.  I didn’t now what to do because mother cats don’t always accept their young back, but finally I decided to simply monitor the situation and I let her in.

Jasmine immediately climbed into the bed, curled herself around Shade, and began to bathe her.  Once I had given the kitten more medicine and fed her a bit with an eyedropper, I left them alone for the night.  By morning Shade was improving and she continued to do so rapidly.  From that time on, mother and daughter were inseparable.

Years later, when Jasmine died at age 14, Shade obviously grieved and was never quite the same.  I took her to the vet because she lost her appetite and he gave some medicine, but it didn’t help.  She lost weight and one morning I found her dead in her bed.  I know there are some species where a male and female will mate for life, but I had never known a couple of cats, even related, would bond in that way.

Shade was only 12 but she missed her mother so much she lost the will to live. 

Lefty and Wynona Duke it Out

In A Writer's Book of Days, Judy Reeves wrote "Perfectionism would have God recast every sunset and chide Mother Nature for her choice of colors. If everything were left up to perfectionism, nothing would exist."

I never thought of myself as a perfectionist. I have three junk drawers. I have two attics crammed with boxes of treasures I'm certain I no longer treasure. I have cobwebs and dust bunnies. I will walk past a foreign object on my kitchen floor perhaps three or four...days...before picking it up. Nope. Not remotely close to perfect. So then why, as a writer, do I expect my writing to be The Big P?

I am my own worst critic. I will slap a scene together off the top of my head and love it. The next day, not so much. By the third or fourth reading I will have gone all Lizzie Borden on that poor scene, making it unrecognizable.

Now, in my defense, I do not function well if I have every scene planned out to the nth degree. By letting my Muse off its leash, my story grows beyond my wildest…well, imagination. The problem is my left brain is a killjoy.

Lefty is judgmental. Nit-picky. Fault-finding. Lefty’s disapproval would make Simon Cowell believe he’s a failure.

In the process of writing my honest-to-god last draft of my cozy mystery, I’ve found myself second guessing my carefully planted clues. I’ve renamed and reinvented characters that I’ve spent weeks developing with loving care. I ripped one poor character’s whole reason for being out from under her, condensing her to a near-bit player.

Why? Well, because my word count is mimicking our national debt and also, because the right side of my brain, Wynona, has rolled over with self-doubt.

So…what to do, what to do? Other than gripe to friends who by now are plenty sick of hearing about it, I put together a plan. My plan…simple, concise...do-able…is to finish my freakin’ WIP! Perfect or imperfect, it has got to go. And yet…

By sending my baby out into the cold cruel world, I am subjecting it to criticism and possible rejection. I’ve sent other babies out there and they’ve come back shivering and inconsolable. My current WIP-baby has been chained to my side and curled into a fetal position for 3 years. I should have cut the apron strings at least a year ago, but she wasn’t ready. Really. She wasn’t.

I can look at my WIP-baby with objectivity. I see her faults. I know her hidden secrets that won’t remain hidden once a Professional gets a chokehold on her. And I believe it’s those reasons that keep me revising.

I never had much room in my life for raising children, but now I understand why parents allow their 20-somethings to stay home way past the age they should be on their own. Once they leave, you worry…will they eat right? Choke on a PBJ because they forgot to buy milk? Sit in an ice-cold apartment because they forgot pay their light bills? Will they have aspirin on hand for a headache, chicken soup if they have a cold? And why the hell aren’t they answering their phones at 11:30 p.m. on a work-night?

I knew raising children would not be a good idea for me. I’m controlling and somewhat paranoid...which comes back to me spinning my wheels in this ERL (Eternal Revision Loop) I’m caught up in.

Robert Graves wrote

A perfect poem

is impossible.

Once it had been written,

the world would end.

Well…Judgment Day is May 21, 2011, this coming Saturday. Perhaps I’m breaking brain cells worrying needlessly about my imperfect little WIP-baby.

Inspired by a Snake, Dirty Laundry and a Dentist Appointment

Nick performs reenactment of snake episode.

I have no idea what it's like to have Writer's Block. In fact I suffer from Overplotters Disease, but hey--that's better than staring at a blank page.

For me, the key to writing a story is imagery. And...hyperbole. Exaggeration. Taking a simple incident and expanding with humor and vibrant prose.

I have a scrapbook of news clippings filled with reports of human nature, Mother Nature, man against nature and the assorted odd-balls and weirdos to assure I'll never be at a loss for characters.

I keep a blank book filled with verbal bits, creative wording, quirky characteristics and Rayisms among the listings. The last is the stuff my husband says. He has a flair for imagery and a sharp-edged humor that has kept me laughing for over 25 years.

My life has given me enough incidents to keep me writing well into the next century. I wish I'd kept better journals through the years. I've done things that make for great character development in my stories. Instead I have to rely on memory.

One memory ended up in my romantic comedy, Southern Exposure.

Ray and I were living in Jacksonville, Florida. I had just waved Ray off to work, turned and there was a snake in my kitchen. It was not small either. I didn't whip out my ruler to measure. Instead I yelped. At first I thought it was fake. A Ray prank. Then it moved.

This is the so "me" part: I had a dentist appointment and feared I would be late. So I tried to broom it out the door. Instead it slithered under my cupboards. This was a cheap patio home and there was an opening under the dishwasher and cupboards. So I decided to stuff dirty laundry in the cracks and then deal with the snake when I got home.

Then the snake peeked from between the clothes (and I swear winked). I had to deal with him right then. Again, I swept him toward the door. It was spring and kinda chilly, so he battled to stay indoors warm and snuggy among my laundry. This went on for a long time. Felt like hours, more like minutes I'm sure.

Eventually, with my broom wailing, I sent the snake flying into the morning dew. A few months later we were scheduled to move from the state. The moving man removed my stereo from the armoir and asked if I wanted to keep the snake skin. He held up a skin about sixteen inches in length. I understood then why that snake fought me so hard. He lived with me! And what is so incredible...I had three cats in this tiny house and not once did they alert me to the snake warming himself behind my stereo. I'm still shuddering when I think about this and its been twelve years.

So. How did I use that experience in Southern Exposure? Here's the scene:

Kat awoke before dawn to wonder why her hair moved when she lay perfectly still. She had gone to bed with her head wrapped in a towel because Dean did not own a blow dryer. She would sneak aboard her yacht later to stock up on female essentials, but in the meantime, why was her hair moving?

With a quick hand she threaded her nails through her unbound locks, and brushed something the size of a pink school eraser. The eraser felt warm, fuzzy and squishy... with ears.

Unable to stifle a blood-curdling scream, Kat bound to her feet and danced around the room, shaking her head. The faint moonlight seeping into the room through the loft window did nothing to reveal the whereabouts of her assailant.

“Kat?” Dean stumbled up the stairs, looking dazed. “What’s wrong?”

Kat managed to turn on the lamp. “You have rats, Dean.” The lamp illuminated his horrified expression. “There is a rat in here. It’s huge. Loaf of bread huge.”

Dean grabbed the lamp, turning wildly in search of the monster. “Get downstairs.”

Already halfway down them, Kat fled into the kitchen where Dixie’s boys were crowded together.

“Look, Aunt Kat.” Hootie pointed at something in the corner. “Mickey’s hungry.”

Kat saw something small and black move between the boys’ feet. “Get out.” She flung each boy by the arm through the door onto the side porch. There she saw the broom she had used to sweep suds. Her heart slamming against her ribs, she ran back inside to face her enemy.

The black rodent sat on its haunches, gazing up at her. His white whiskers moved with the constant twitching of his nose. He had one white ear and a white spot on his tummy. Kat raised her broom and with the force of an avenging angel, brought it down--only to stop a fraction from its head. She had never killed anything in her life. Not a spider, not a fly. She loved animals, more than humans. But this rodent had been in her hair. She did a little impromptu dance at the ickyness of the thought.

Whimpering, Kat used the broom to push the mouse toward the door. It scurried under the table, and ran along the baseboard. She followed close behind, determined to rid Dean’s house of the pestilence. The mouse darted into the open and she pinned it to the floor with the brush end. “Ray-Bob, hold the door open.”

“But, Aunt Kat...”

“Do it.” As the boy obeyed, Kat position the mouse in front of the door. She saw Hootie and Bobby-Ray in the way. “Stand back.”

Once the porch looked clear, Kat lifted her broom. The mouse streaked for the kitchen closet; she wildly swept it back toward the door, and with a final thrust, sent it flying through the air into the early morning dew. Exhausted, she sunk to the floor. “You boys okay?” When they nodded, she asked, “It didn’t bite you, did it?” She scanned their hands for signs of festering wounds.

Hootie knelt next to her. “No, Aunt Kat. Mickey doesn’t bite.”

She ruffled his hair. “This isn’t Disney, honey. That mouse could have bit you. It could be sick with rabies.”

“Uncle Dean wouldn’t let Stevie have a mouse with rabies,” Ray-Bob said from the door.

The boy’s words took a moment to seep past the hysteria ebbing through her mind. “That was Stevie’s mouse? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Where’s Mickey?” Stevie’s scream ricocheted through the house. She bolted into the kitchen, her eyes wildly seeking evidence of her pet.

Kat rose to her feet, using the broom to keep her knees from buckling. “Stevie, I...”

“You killed him,” Stevie accused, her eyes blazing. “You killed Mickey.”

“I didn’t,” Kat defended. “I just put him outside.”

Stevie bolted through the door, her hysterical cries rising along with the morning sun. Dean entered the kitchen, his expression confirming he had heard everything. Kat buried her face in her hands. “I’ll replace him.”

Dean nodded. “Good luck.” What else could he say?

Putting yourself into a scene ensures it will spring to life. Even now, rereading how Kat battled Mickey, I again found myself in my kitchen battling that snake. So if you're struggling to bring a scene to life, look at your own life first. Unless you live in a cupboard under someone's stairs...I'll bet you have an experience worth writing about.

Blinky Balls, Bumpy Balls, Chirpy Balls and Mangled Mouse

Okay, I've had it. I am not buying any more "cat toys." My house is overrun with blinky balls, bumpy balls, chirpy balls and one extremely mangled mouse...oodles of catnip toys galore. And yet what entertains my brats? A box. A pen cap. A piece of dog kibble. The small bungee cord I use to keep the French doors to my office closed when I’m desperate to work and need to keep them out.

Last night I watched Opie romp on the stairs, flipping something all the way up, then all the way down with much enthusiasm. Peaches joined in. Together whatever they had was the kitty be-all and end-all of cat toys. I had to see what it was: a pompom foot off of Mangled Mouse.

I used to do the eccentric thing at Christmas...crazy cat lady fills stockings for her kitties. Everyone had their own and Santy Claws would stuff em with kibble treats and absurdly-priced toys designed for cat people to buy because they were adorable and yet highly impractical in that the beaded eyes and yarn tail made toxic choking hazards. My cousin has taken up the slack I've dropped at Christmas by giving my cats catnip puff balls and Party Mix...to my gang from Aunt Sandy and their kitty cousins. Actually the catnip puff balls are a huge success. They're fun to smack around, easy to carry in one's mouth and smell great. They also destroy quite easily which makes for designer-looking hairballs when they come back up.

Watching Opie and Peaches turn inside out with pleasure over a stupid pompom has solidified my resolve not to buy any more cat toys. When Christmas 2011 arrives, I'll just upend the junk drawer into their stockings. I'm 100% positive my brats will be thrilled.

Evie aka Eve of Destruction

by

Angela Verdenius

(nutty owner & writer)

http://www.angelaverdenius.com/

I have many cats.  I have many headaches. Funny how the two somehow go together.

Seriously – oh wait, I am being serious…

Here’s a little taste of what I’m up against just with one of the furry hit-mob.

Evie – aka Eve of Destruction (getting the idea now?) – came to us on the 3^rd of January.  That date will forever be burned into my memory, sort of like a branding.  The little boy next door came to our house with a little kitten in one hand, and a sad story in the other.  He was at a friend’s house on the other side of town, and they found this kitten under a shed.  A search of the neighbourhood produced no one who owned it, so he brought her home.  His mother, he said, didn’t want the kitten as there were babies coming to the house.  So he was looking for a home for her.

To this day I have a sneaking suspicion we were the first house he went to, because we have ‘SUCKERS’ on a sign on top of our house that is visible only to stray cats and little boys looking for homes for kittens.

So we took in Evie and said we’d try and find a home for her.  I advertised her in the newspaper for a week, but no takers.  So Evie, the little tortoiseshell and white kitten (I think they’re called ‘calicos’ in the US), was ours to keep.  About 6 weeks old, she looked sooo cute and sweet and small.  Within 10 minutes of letting her loose in the house, her nickname became Eve of Destruction.

Evie was too small to let out onto the trellised back veranda, as she could squeeze through the holes, so we had to let her loose in the house during certain times only.  Evie soon learned to squeeze through the security screen door on the front room where she slept (so now I had to buy flywire and put in), and then she’d swarm up the door yelling at the top of her lungs ‘HOW CRUEL WE WERE AND SHE’D CALL THE RSPCA, SEE IF SHE DIDN'T’!  We stood our ground.

When let loose in the house, she quickly learned to also squeeze through the little gate in the passage that kept the dogs from going into the bedrooms, and when we put wire against the gate, she was up and over it and merrily trotting around, inquiring what we were up to and wasn’t this FUN?

So why didn’t we just shut the doors, you ask?  Because our other cats are used to having the run of the house and backroom, and the trellised back veranda, which gave them access to the cat run.  So now we had to be continuously opening and shutting the doors because the big cats had to come in and out twice as much now it was shut, and Evie wanted to join them.

Evie is growing up fast.  At about 5 - 6 months old, she’s gone from a cutie baby to a lanky rebellious teenager.  She swarms up the door and then screams for us to rescue her (and why did it take you so long? she’ll ask), she gets into the pantry and climbs to the stop shelf and knocks things down, fell into the fish tank while I was cleaning it, jumps all over the big cats and has them absolutely bewildered that she isn’t frightened of them (in fact, I’ve seen the big cats run away when Evie is in a tormenting mood), climbs my mother’s back when she’s ironing, tries to help my mother when she’s sewing and thereby making my Mum freak out, chases the broom and plays in the dirt we try to gather up BEFORE she gets to it, and her favourite trick, getting into the ‘fridge every time we open the door.

Evie Evie Evie *sigh*… the days are constantly filled with “No.  Don’t.  Put it down.  Leave it. Don’t eat it. Spit it out.  Stay there.  Don’t you dare.  Give me that.  Leave her/him alone.  Don’t even think it.” Etc etc.

Right now she’s snuggled into my Mum’s arms, her big eyes shut and a little smile on her angelic face, and I think ‘aaawwwww’.  She is so cute.  She loves my Mum, and I’ll do when Mum isn’t around.  She’s so sweet and kissable and we just want to snuggle her when she’s sleepy.

Then she wakes up and Eve of Destruction is back in the swing of things, and our day starts again “No.  Don’t.  Put it down.  Leave it. Don’t eat it. Spit it out.  Stay there.  Don’t you dare.  Give me that.  Leave her/him alone.  Don’t even think it.” Etc etc.

And we’d do it all over again without hesitation.  To be a cat lover, you have to be  little nuts <g>.

A bit about Angela Verdenius

~*~

I live in Australia, where I am ruled by my cats, adore reading, and I think a perfect day is writing and drinking Diet Coke, followed by reading or a good horror movie. I'm very lucky in that my books have won many reviewers’ awards, been on the Fictionwise best-seller list, and one of them has even won the Golden Rose Award! Reading has always been my escape, writing my dream. Horror, myths, legends, fantasy and history ,there are no limits to the wonders to be found. And romance? Well, that adds the spice, hope and happiness ever after.

Love, Heart & Soul Moments is a finalist in the
Favourite Sci-Fi, Urban Fantasy or Futuristic Romance at the Australian Romance Readers Awards! 

Zombie Hospital is just plain fun!

The Littlest Angel by Janice Robinson

I've been in the dog business for many, many years. I have been brought to tears more times than I can count, both with joy and anger. I take the health and welfare of all pets very personally. I would be a total failure as a rescue foster because I would never be able to let go. 

I attended, as a vendor for Dog Zone Training & Activity Center, the Guardians for Animals Pooch-A-Licious Fashion Show last night at the Royal Oak Farmers Market. I know there are a lot of people who roll their eyes at the thought of dogs being dressed up and paraded down a catwalk. But they are not getting the point. The point of this event was to generate interest in a society that has become numb to the plight of thrown away pets. Rescues are constantly trying to come up with new and inventive ideas to bring interest and therefore, possible new pet parents to view these babies that so desperately need new homes. It's not easy by any means.

The evening was absolutely beautiful, well thought out and executed. The pets on the display seemed to enjoy the attention and hopefully most found a new loving home. The various rescues decorated their areas, had their information at the ready for any perspective parent that might inquire, and put their best foot forward. 

I've been to more of these events than I can count, I see the same people over and over. As I packed up my Jeep and slowly drove home at 10:00pm, I thought about them, I knew I wanted to write this note.

I really don't think that the general public knows how much time, effort, blood, sweat and tears goes into rescuing. Honestly, people casually walk by a cage, give a glance or two and move on. They haven't a clue what went on before, during or after. I'm not going to comment on the actual art of rescuing. It's too intense, too detailed and really, I don't want to cry right now. My comments here are targeting the events they go to. The very physical labor and mental process for each and every event is overwhelming. Rescue people have families and jobs but they spend all their free time trying to find homes for the homeless. Take a good look at what they do, walk around and ask questions at the next adoption event. This is hard work and emotionally draining. They do it because they cannot walk away from any pet saying, no, I don't feel like helping you today, I would rather do something fun. It's not in their genetic makeup. They can't look into those sad eyes and turn away. Their hands automatically reach out to help.

I watch as they pull up, each car packed with crates, cages, toys, blankets, water bowls, treats, food, medication, grooming supplies, clean up supplies, decorating supplies, paperwork and most often tables, chairs and tents. Each set up with the care and comfort of the animals in mind. I've seen frozen water bottles and fans in the heat of summer and extra blankets, sweaters and jackets in the winter. All are hauled in to their designated space, set up, rearranged and made to look spectacular. Then each pet is brought in, pottied, groomed, bows or bandannas and information packs assigned. Dogs are constantly taken to go potty throughout the event, along with hugs given for the nervous and excited. 

Throughout the event they talk each pet up, answer questions, go through debates, weed out the crazies, change cage papers, feed, groom and talk some more. It's exhausting. Then in the end, they pack it all up, take it home, just to do it all over again and again.

I'm here to say, these people are saints. Really, could you do this every weekend? No, most are out enjoying the sun, sleeping in, making plans with their family, taking vacations. Rescue people are a different breed. They give up their free time in hopes that one of their foster pets MIGHT find a forever home. They are dedicated to a cause that is endless. They spend their own money and often do without so a homeless soul could have a better life. It's a thankless job. The best they can hope for is to hear a success story from an adoptive parent. It's what they live for.

I also want to acknowledge Guardians for Animals, a non-profit organization whose mission is dedicated to helping these rescues and sanctuaries save the lives of abandoned, abused and neglected animals. Without Alex's help, many rescues would not have the funds to do what they do. She has done more for the rescue organizations than can be counted in a lifetime. Many a pet owes their very life to her efforts. Please take a look at GFA and see if a donation might be the right move for you. http://www.guardiansforanimals.org/

God bless them all, for if God knows when a sparrow falls to the ground, he certainly is looking down kindly on those that are there trying to catch them. My sister Kim, though not involved in an organized rescue, has more than done her share of rescuing cats from Florida to Michigan. She has a special heart for it.

So the next time you hear someone comment about how much a rescue costs, please tell them that not only are these pets healthy, vaccinated and spayed/neutered, but the amount of time and love that has gone into them is priceless.

Support rescues, every bit helps. Bring food, blankets, toys, check that box on your tax returns, check into the donation opportunity on your Kroger/grocery store swipe card and if you have a bit of extra money, please send it in. It's so desperately needed. Every dime is appreciated. If so inclined, say a prayer for them all, I'm sure it is needed too. Take the time to tell these people, thank you, thank you for all your dedicated work. We appreciate what you do. They deserve that much and it's nice to hear.

And above all: Adopt, you both need the love.

The Angel in the picture is a sweet baby whose leg was so beyond repair it had to be amputated. The owner was going to euthanize her. But a rescue got her first, today she is healthy, happy and oh so beautiful. She is loved.

Dog Zone Training & Activity Center as Rescue Rates. We want to do our part to help a newly rescued dog adjust into their new home. We can also help a foster dog overcome certain issues to help them become more adoptable. I really hope people will take advantage of this and not return a pet for something that could have been solved.

Hugs to you all. I for one, appreciate all that you do. Janice Robinson

Note from Kim: Janice is my sister who has devoted her soul to the love and caring of strays. She shares her life with numerous ex-stray cats and one heckuva great Italiano Spinone named Grissom.

How to tell the Difference between Heaven and Hell

 A man and his dog were walking along a road. The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead. He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years. He wondered where the road was leading them. 

After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble... At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.

When he was standing before it he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold. He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side.
When he was close enough, he called out, 'Excuse me, where are we?'

'This is Heaven, sir,' the man answered.. 'Wow! Would you happen to have some water?' the man asked.

Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up. 'The man gestured, and the gate began to open.

'Can my friend,' gesturing toward his dog, 'come in, too?' the traveler asked.

'I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets.'

The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog.

After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. There was no fence.

As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book.

'Excuse me!' he called to the man. 'Do you have any water?'

'Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in.'

'How about my friend here?' the traveler gestured to the dog.

'There should be a bowl by the pump.'

They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it.

The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog.
When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree.

'What do you call this place?' the traveler asked.
'This is Heaven,' he answered.. 

'Well, that's confusing,' the traveler said. 'The man down the road said that was Heaven, too.'

'Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That's hell.'

'Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?'

'No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind.'

.

__,_._,___